


Just a Little Light Stalking

by metaloucalypse



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Cute, Deadpool - Freeform, Deadpool/Reader - Freeform, F/M, deadpool has a crush, plentiful cussing, stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-21 21:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6059227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metaloucalypse/pseuds/metaloucalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You live in a big city, attending a not-so-great public school, aspiring to be a journalist. After an attempted convenience store robbery, the mysterious Deadpool takes a liking to you.</p><p>Deadpool doesn't belong to me, duh.</p><p>Now has a soundtrack that goes with the chapter title song references!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seven Eleven, Seven Even

It’s Wednesday. Wednesday is officially the worst day of the week. Like, sure, yeah, Mondays suck, but you know what makes Wednesdays worse? People like this fuckin’ convenience store clerk who smiles and says “Happy hump day!” as you enter the store. What kind of hump day bullshit is this? Is Wednesday supposed to be a holiday now? Is it just a sad coping mechanism to say, _Dear god we are trapped smack dab in the middle of the week_? You give her a grimace-smile and venture into the back of the store, hunting for caffeine. The bell attached to the door dings and you don’t really look up until you hear a scream. You peek over a shelf and see two big guys with guns, pointing them at the formerly chipper cashier.

_Oh shit…_

You try to step away quietly, walking backwards with your eyes on the door, but you crash into an unfortunately large snack display. Cellophane crunches, and you let out an “Oof!” As you hit the floor. One of the guys holding up the counter is above you now, staring down menacingly.

“God dammit,” you say quietly to yourself, covered in crushed packets of whatever you knocked down.

Yeah, Wednesdays are definitely the worst.

He holds a gun to your head and you roll your eyes as you get up off the floor and are corralled over to the counter, where the other guy is going through the cash register and the tiny bottles of booze. Being sassy probably isn’t your best option, but after the day you’ve had, you honestly don’t give a shit anymore. The cashier is crying now, she tried to trip the silent alarm and had her foot crushed by the dude behind the counter. Your captor thumps you in the lower back with the butt of his gun, and you drop to your knees with your hands above your head. The few other customers in the store are face-down on the ground. You’re actually starting to get a little scared, when the doorbell dings.

“Outta here, we’re doin’ something!” the goon with his hand still on your shoulder says. However, his hand is only attached to his body for another five seconds or so. A long, thin metal blade swishes right past your face and the guy lets out an unmanly scream, staring at his stump in disbelief. The detached hand still grips your shoulder, and you make a face as you try to brush it off. The one responsible is currently a blur of red jumping over the counter and pointing a gun at the other robber. The whole store stares up in awe at this tall, robust man in skin-tight red spandex.

“Hey, it’s Deadpool!” a kid yells, getting up from the floor.

Confidently, the robber shoots Deadpool square in the chest, and everyone in the store looks away. But he doesn’t even flinch. The robber is looking at his gun like it betrayed him. The bullet wound is just closing up. Deadpool laughs, and points his gun to the guy’s head, not hesitating to give him a clean shot to the temple.

“Alrighty!” Deadpool yells out in a higher voice than you’d expect. He looks at the other robber, still wide-eyed and terrified due to his unexpected amputation. He points his gun at the guy and makes a noise like, _hmmm_?

In half a second he’s out the door, clutching his handless arm.

“Thank god, I really didn’t wanna fight that guy. I’m running low on bullets. ‘Scuse me, cashier, what can I get for,” he stops to rummage in a pocket, “three Pizza Land tokens?”

“You saved my life!” the still shaken-up cashier says, “All of our lives!”

“Yeah, yeah. Had to make a snack run anyway.”

The police are eventually called, but by the time they get there, Deadpool is nowhere to be found. A burly policeman with an outdated mustache questions you. You tell him what he wants to know, but mainly you’re just trying to get out of there with your caffeine fix. You’ve picked out the cheapest, biggest, scariest energy monstrosity in the store. Refresco de los Locos, or something, is what it says in angry, red boldface. And god knows you need it. Back to the bad day thing.

10 AM: _**Shit** , I slept in_.

12: PM: _**Fuck** , I forgot my lunch_.

4 PM: _**Goddammit** , history report. Geography project. Geometry homework. English test. Art piece. Science experiment. Journalism assignment. No no no no no **no**_.

There’s a good chance you’ll have to pull an all-nighter. And on top of it, you’re forming a nasty bruise in your lower back. You step around the huddled masses, pretending they were way more affected by the attempted robbery than they really were, and head home. Your dad is asleep, sitting on the couch, leaning forward with his face smashed into the coffee table. You put the water on and prepare two sad little ramen blocks. He jolts awake as you nudge him with your knee, putting a bowl down for him. Wheel of Fortune is on, and the both of you yell out solutions for the puzzles until your downstairs neighbor is beating her broom on the ceiling. Eventually, the bowls go in the sink and your dad goes back to whatever work he was doing on the table. You retreat to your room with your sketchy energy drink and take out your massive mountain of homework. History, easy. Geography, where’s that model of the great plains you made in second grade? You can probably spice that up to show overfarming with three hours and some glue. Geometry… fuck it, you’re not going to be good at geometry, even with 32 ounces of Mexican caffeine. Maybe you can bullshit your way through everything else by the time morning hits. Okay, journalism.

“Report a crime story, real or fake. Include interviews and a police report.”

“ _5:32 PM, 110 Lafayette Street. A peaceful scene is interrupted when two armed persons enter the 7-11_ …” You’re reading the paper out loud to yourself as you make up an approximate police report and comments to go along with the details you remember.

“All hope was thought to be lost, until,”

“Until a badass in a red suit broke in and kicked the holy _hell_ out of ‘em!”

You nearly jump out of your seat, turning around and eyeing the red-suited person standing by your open window.

“Hi!” he says cheerfully.

“What the fuck are you-”

“Just making sure you’re okay, looked like you got hit kinda hard, and I kinda did swing a katana right past your face. Not cool, I know. Here’s this for your troubles.”

He holds his hands out. Three Pizza Land tokens.

“What…” you trail off, confused about so many things, finally just settling on, “ _What_?”


	2. In The Still Of The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now contains a goodie-goodie best friend, failed romantic gestures, and really stupid 80s references.

Still shocked, you stare at Deadpool as he holds out his hand. Hesitantly, you hold out yours and he drops the tokens.

“Thanks…?”

“Anytime! So how’s the back?”

“Um, good,” it hurts, but you don’t want to have an actual conversation with some guy in red spandex who broke into your apartment, “Why are you here?”

“Whenever I traumatize a pretty girl I like to make sure she’s okay.”

You can’t see his eyes through his mask, but the little nod of his head to the side suggests he winks.

“You did _not_ traumatize me. I was inconvenienced at best.” You cross your arms. “And I’m _not_ pretty.”

“Psh!” Deadpool waves a dismissive hand at you and flops down onto your bed, dangling his feet, “So what’re you writing?”

If he hasn’t killed you at this point, you figure he won’t, so you relax a little and swivel your chair back to face the article at your desk.

“Journalism homework.”

“Exciting,” he says, drawing out the “I” to make it sarcastic, “You wanna do something interesting?”

Suddenly, there’s a knock at your door. Your eyes widen and you point Deadpool towards the closet. He makes a run for it and hides behind a sliding door. Your dad comes in the room.

“(Y/n), I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late.”

“Okay, dad. No promises.” You fake being calm, but you fear your father can hear your heart beating as loudly as you can.

He gives you a slightly sad, but knowing smile and shuts the door gently behind him. Deadpool emerges with a long, faux velvet, leopard print coat over his suit. It’s your trashy thrift store coat. The unforgiving material barely stretches over his shoulders and he does Marilyn Monroe-type poses in your mirror.

“This is _niiice_.”

“Hey, take it off!” You hiss in a yell-whisper.

“Ooh, that’s sexy!”

“That’s not what I…” you trail off and sigh. You really, really hope Deadpool doesn’t notice you’re blushing.

“Aww, your little red face!”

“Shut the fuck up!” you groan, turning back around in your chair.

“So your name’s (y/n)?”

You sigh, “Yeah. Dammit.”

“You can call me Wade. Little less formal than ‘Deadpool’, huh?”

“I don’t think you can get less formal than ‘Deadpool.’”

“C’mon!” he throws the coat on your bed, tugging on your arm, “Let’s do something fun!”

“I really have to stay and get this done.”

You’re sure if it weren’t for the mask you’d be able to see him pouting.

“But… but we can…” he pauses to think, “Go to Chinatown and talk in offensive accents, or go throw stuff in the river, or break into the animal shelter and pet the puppies.”

“You... are terrible,” you say pointedly, beginning to scribble again.

“Fine, be boring. But I can’t say I won’t be back.”

You don’t look at him again, but you hear the window thump shut and Wade loudly trudges down your fire escape. You don’t really feel bad for blowing him off. After all, you are really busy, and he is just some guy that potentially saved your life and then committed a B&E on you. The mountain of homework dwindles, and at about 4 AM, you pass out on your desk. Three hours later, your alarm goes off and you spring up to collect everything and get ready. Thursday isn’t so bad, right? It’s basically the Friday of Friday. Friday’s Friday. Pre-Friday. Now you’re confused. You walk to school, shoebox diagram of the dust bowl in hand, and you can’t shake the feeling that someone- some _thing_ \- is watching you.

You eventually reach the decaying steps of your school and stomp your way into the disgustingly fluorescently lit hallway. The whole place is lit like a fuckin’ dentist’s office. You drop the diorama off in the shoddy science lab and make your way to your locker. Announcements come through on a broken PA system, the sound of the ancient office lady’s voice crackling and croaking about fundraisers and shit you don’t care about. You open your locker, and a dozen crushed roses fall out. They look like they were salvaged out of a dumpster. You wrinkle your nose and a couple people give you concerned looks as they pass by.

“Who the heck gave ya dead roses?” the girl at the locker to your right says. You shrug, and look over. It’s Sylvia. She’s not really your friend, but she sort of is in that high-school-friends way, you know? Some high school friends are kinda like prison friends. You’ll bitch about math class and teachers and cafeteria food with them, but there’s no fucking way you’d actually hang out with them once you escaped the system. Sylvia is a sweet, simple blond girl from some right-wing, Christian town in backwoods Wisconsin. Her clothes are Sunday school and her accent is heavy. She evens you out. She’s the “gosh darnit” to your “god fucking dammit.”

She steps a little closer and peers through her glasses at the bouquet. The green cellophane is rumpled and there’s a little tag on it. The original text is “To Tina, Love Jimmy,” but that’s been crossed out in sparkly gel pen and replaced with “-W.W.”

“Who’s W.W.?” Sylvia asks, touching a dead petal and watching as it flutters to the ground.

“No idea.” But as soon as you say that, you remember. Didn’t Deadpool say his name was Wade? How did he even get in here? The bell rings and you stuff the flowers back in your locker and slam the door. At lunchtime, Sylvia follows you around to the back of the school and opens up her wholesome sack lunch. You, on the other hand, have a _Masters of the Universe_ thermos full of coffee, half a sleeve of crackers, and a partially-smoked Benson and Hedges you picked up out of a street ashtray. It’s not really sanitary, but you don’t really care. The two of you engage in boring small talk until she walks away to dispose of her trash like a good citizen. Something crashes down onto the dumpster beside you and you nearly jump a foot in the air. Clad in red spandex, sitting on the dumpster with his legs crossed coyly,

“Wade?”

“Hiya! Like the flowers?”

“They were, uh, dead. But nice? I guess? How did you get here?”

“Yeah, I found ‘em in the trash behind a florist’s. Oh, no big deal, I snuck in at, like, 4 AM.”

Beat, “Why?”

“Because flowers are romantic!”  
Sylvia is on her way over again and Wade rolls off the dumpster to hide behind it so she won’t see him.

“So ehhnyway, my brother’s gettin’ married, but we don’t like the girl. Dresses like a real night walker, yah know?”

“Mmhmm,” you’re only halfway paying attention. Wade pops his head up and gives you a thumbs up. You fight the urge to roll your eyes as he sprints away from the school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can NOT thank you enough for your support. Like, holy shit. In just a few days, I've gotten more hits, comments, kudos, bookmarks, whatever than I've ever gotten before on ANYTHING. This is insane. I totally love you guys. This is the first time I've ever been motivated to continue anything. THANK YOU.


	3. The Lights Are Slowly Going Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whose house? Wade's house.
> 
> This chapter gets a little sexy, be warned.
> 
> Sorry it took so long, I'm stupid.

"Hand over the icy hot, will you?" you pester Wade, who's standing in the corner of your room. Your father is out, and Wade has invited himself in again. He tosses you the tube from the top of your dresser and you hike up your shirt as little as possible, trying to reach your lower back.

"You need help?" he asks, fighting back a laugh and watching you struggle.

"You looking for an excuse to touch me?" you both laugh and you turn back around, stretching your arms in vain. Suddenly, Wade is behind you. He takes the tube from your hand and you look back at him, nervous and confused, but silent. With the tube between his teeth, he pulls off both his gloves. You look straight back ahead. Seconds later, his hands are on you, rubbing the burning cream in. You let out a little huff and tilt your head back. Wade laughs softly.

"Feel good?"

You blush and look down. This is such a chick flick moment, but honestly, Wade's unusually rough hands feel amazing on your sore back. After a minute, you feel his breath, hot on the back of your neck.

"Wade..."

"Yeah?"

You turn around and step a little closer. He winces when you touch his chin.

"Babydoll, you don't wanna see whats under there."

You give him a puzzled look.

"It's a long story." he sighs, but then crosses the room to turn off your light, "Is this okay?"

You respond by pulling his mask up over his mouth and pressing your lips to his. His hands go right to your sides and squeeze, holding you like he’s about to lift you like a ballerina. It's completely dark, so your senses are exhilarated. Wade lifts your shirt the rest of the way up and pulls it over your head. His fingertips are still tingly from the icy hot and you sigh as they ghost down your sides. He unsnaps your bra and tugs the straps down your arms. You shiver, feeling exposed, but at least the lights are off.

"God damn," he finally says, lightly pinching your left nipple.

Your breath hitches, "What?"

"You're fucking sexy, that's what."

You giggle and walk backwards, hopping up onto your bed, Wade following you and straddling you. He takes your hands gently and pins them above your head, taking the opportunity to completely attack your chest with his mouth. You squirm underneath him, feeling overwhelmed with teeth and tongue roaming all over your torso. This wasn’t supposed to happen, but you can’t say you didn’t kind of want it to. He moves his mouth back to yours and one of his hands travels down to rest on the crotch of your pants. Your hips lift and you make a contented little moan. He licks your lip and bites down, just hard enough to worry you, while still being sexy. He releases your hands and they immediately go to his shoulders, rubbing and exploring, just touching. You’ve never done this with anyone, but it feels natural with Wade. It’s like it’s just happening. He’s not expecting you to know or do anything. Another thing neither of you are expecting is the sudden blaring of a cell phone ringtone. It’s Wade’s. And it’s J. J. Fad.

“Sorry, I have to…”

“It’s okay,”

“It might be an emergency,”

“Don’t worry,”

He hesitates, but gets up off the bed and goes over to the window, where he’s dumped all of his belongings on the floor. Swords, guns, knives, and an outdated flip phone.

“Hello?...Oh, _shit_. God dammit, Weasel. God dammit.” He closes the phone and straps his weaponry back on.

“I’m really fucking sorry, (y/n), I have to go. I… I’ll come back, if I can.”

“It’s fine, Wade.” you cross the room to meet him by the window and kiss him one last time before he pulls down his mask and dashes out your window and down the fire escape. You’re not gonna lie, you’re a little sad, but also a little relieved. You wake up in the morning to see one of Wade’s gloves still on your floor from the night before. The impulses that controlled you last night now have you feeling regretful. It all happened too soon, you didn’t know how to stop it. Hell, you didn’t _want_ to stop it. But now all these feelings are making you feel vulnerable, and it’s pissing you off. You tuck Wade’s glove into your bag in case you run into him, top off your thermos, and head to school. Last day of the week. You can do this.

On your walk to school, your phone rings. You don’t know the number.

“Hello?”

“Do you have my glove?”

“Wade?” Goddammit.

“Yeah, do you have it?”

“How did you get this number?”

“Hush. The glove. Do you have it.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“You wanna come by after school? I’m still dealing with shit from last night.”

“Uh,” oh no, this seems a little creepy, “Sure.”

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“Awesome.” he gives you an address and you tell him you’ll be there around five thirty.

 _Click_.

You got a different vibe from Wade on the phone. Maybe it was something about last night. You really hope things haven’t changed between the two of you, because you think you’re actually starting to enjoy Wade as a person. You finish the trek to school and begin your usual menial routine of listening to Sylvia ramble on, running yourself rampant through classes, and chain-smoking angrily during lunch period.

“That’s really unhealthy,” Sylvia says, mouth full of Wonder-Bread PB&J.

You laugh, spitting on the concrete and snuffing out the yellow stub beneath your shoe.

“It is, isn’t it?”

After school is finally finished, you put on your crappy, outdated, foam headphones and try your best to find Wade’s address. It’s not far from the 7-11 on Lafayette. It’s on a sidestreet; a little apartment above a Chinese restaurant. You actually have to hit the buzzer and go in through the Chinese place. Of course Wade lives here. You knock on the large, wooden door, rotted and the color of dirty pennies. An older woman answers. She’s wearing those big wraparound sunglasses, like the kind they give you at the eye doctor, but they look surprisingly high quality, and the frames are hot pink. You smile politely at her and are worried when she doesn’t react, until you realize she can’t see you.

“Goddamn pranksters,” she says, beginning to close the door, but you stop her.

“Oh, no no, sorry. Is, um, is Wade here?”

“Wade, visitor!” She hollers, and steps back to let you into the apartment.

Wade’s place is… _interesting_ , to say the least.


	4. Down Around the Block

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry that took so long. I thought I'd have time to write in the summer... I was wrong. To make it up to you, here's this.

“No, dude, no, it’s like that time I drank river water and got hung over.”

“You had a parasite, Weasel.” Wade's voice, from a few rooms over.

“Right.” You don't recognize the other one.

The blind lady who answered the door sighs loudly and shuffles into the little kitchen of the apartment. The place is filthy. The walls appear to be charred, somehow, and a few burned corpses of cockroaches and centipedes litter the floors. It smells like booze and pizza grease. You find Wade and a bearded, bespectacled, beer-bellied man sitting on a beat-up couch playing cards.

“Ha! Go fish, motherfucker!” Wade shouts.

You drop the glove down on the table, and Wade looks up, clearly happy behind the mask.

“(Y/N)!” He stands up and acts like he’s going to hug you, but backs off after a second thought, clearing his throat. “I heard Al say there was a visitor, but she’s, y’know, crazy. I’m glad you made it.”

“Who’s your lady friend?” The pudgy guy speaks up, raising, his eyebrows, smiling sleazily at you.

“You shut the fuck up,” Wade says melodramatically.

“Whatever,” he puts his hands up as a non-threatening gesture, “Alright, I’m outtie. 5000. Nice to not meet you, lady friend.”

He puts on a battered Knicks cap and makes a cheers motion at Wade with a half-full 40 of Mickey’s as he walks out of the room.

“Thanks for returning the glove,” Wade says, picking it up off the table and putting it back on. You notice, while he does this, that his hand has a strange look to it. His skin looks orange and bubbly, almost like he’s been burned. You decide against asking questions. You figure it’s a part of the “long story.”

He gestures to the couch, “You,” he clears his throat, “You wanna sit?”

You shrug, taking a seat on the sofa.

“So what happened last night?”

“Okay, so that guy? Complete fucking idiot. My best friend, but a complete fucking idiot.” He pauses to laugh, “All I know is he started out in a strip club near the fuckin’ projects and ended up drunk, in jail, in nothing but jean cutoffs and one tassel pastie.”

“Sounds like a pretty normal night.”

Wade giggles at you, and then turns his attention to the television. He has it on Telemundo. There’s a novella on, like the ones you hear through the walls of your apartment building. All screaming and crying, and low-quality dramatic music, with the added bonus of being in a language you don’t understand. On the screen, a muscular, tanned man with an open shirt is full-on chugging a glass of red wine. Your mouth feels plaquey just thinking about it. You’re ripped from your thoughts and startled when Wade suddenly stands up and throws his hands at his sides in frustration.

“She doesn’t _love_ you, Maximilliano!”

He sighs, distraught, and sits back down.

“Whoa,” is all you can manage to say.

The two of you stay there on his couch for what feels like hours, slowly inching closer together. Eventually, you find your head resting on his shoulder. You look up at him and he smiles.

“Can we,” you sit up, “Can we talk about the _other_ thing that happened last night?”

He looks down, “I sucked, didn’t I?”

“No, no no no, it’s not that,” you pause to think, “It’s just… it happened so fast. And I’ve never done that type of thing with anyone. If anything, I’m the one who sucked.”

“Psh! No way. But I get what you’re trying to say, (Y/N).” He puts a hand on top of yours, “Can we still hang out though?”

“Of course,” you give him a gentle smile, “That’s why I had to talk to you. I think for now we should just work on getting to know each other. That other stuff- the stuff from last night- it can wait til later.”

He sits up too, and pulls you into a hug, “Thank you, (Y/N). No one’s ever wanted to stick around me like this.”

“You’re welcome,” you whisper, placing a barely noticeable little kiss to the side of his masked face.

After a while of watching more telenovelas, Wade gets up to go downstairs and get Chinese food. You call your dad while he’s gone.

“(Y/N)? Where are you? I was starting to get worried.”

“Don’t worry, dad, I’m staying the night at Sylvia’s.”

“That creepy Amish girl?”

“Dad, she’s not Amish.”

“Mormon?”

“She’s not- well, actually, she might be Mormon. But I’ll be home in the morning.”

You finish up your call right as Wade walks in, styrofoam boxes piled high. He sets the precarious stack on the table and shouts, “Al! I got foodstuffs!”

“You better not _Lost Boys_ me again, Wade…” she groans, shuffling into the room.

“Don’t worry, no rice. Not again.”

Al settles in an armchair by the couch and the three of you stuff your faces while Al yells at Jeopardy.

“What is the Alamo?” she pauses, mouth open while she leans her head towards the TV to listen.

The contestant on TV answers wrong.

“I’m sorry, Cindy, but the answer is, ‘What is the Alamo.’” Alex Trebek gives Cindy a fake look of sympathy.

“Fuck you, Trebek! Fuck you, Cindy! I knew that.” She hurls a chopstick at the TV and it bounces off of Alex Trebek’s static-ridden face.

As the night goes on, Al repeatedly falls asleep and wakes up in her chair, until she finally gives up and shuffles out of the room.

“G’night,” she mutters, waving one hand, whacking the sides of a hallway with her cane.

“Night,” you and Wade chime, giggling.

You’re getting tired too, but by no means do you want Wade to think you’re a quitter. You want him to think you’re one of those cool existentialist teenagers who don’t need to sleep. Even so, you find yourself laying your head on the arm of the couch and curling your knees to your chest.

“Tired?” Wade leans forward to look at you.

“Nuh-uh,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes and stifling a yawn, “I’m good.”

“Liar,” he laughs, holding out a hand, “C’mere.”

You don’t take his hand.

“ _C’mere!_ ” he whines playfully.

You take his hand and he pulls you up into his lap. His arms are big and warm, and you’re probably the most comfortable you’ve ever been in your life.

“Better?” he whispers.

You nod your head, already half asleep as you burrow your head in the crook of his neck. When you wake up again, it’s dark, and you’re being carried. Wade is trying hard not to step on the especially creaky parts of his floorboards. He makes it down the hallway and gently places you down on a soft bed, getting in next to you once you’re settled. You flip onto your side to face him, still pretending to be asleep and you hear him sigh.

“God, I don’t wanna fuck this up,” he whispers.

He wraps his arms around you again and the two of you fall into a deep sleep.


	5. Angel of the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! Now with a new, more relevant title and a soundtrack that goes with the chapter song references! Sorry 'bout the wait, yadda yadda yadda.
> 
> https://play.spotify.com/user/satanssecretary/playlist/3e5xRcGyWUfR0VpKpGU2cy

You wake up under soft black sheets and a heavy comforter. You’re stricken with a temporary sense of panic until you remember where you are. Wade is gone. Instead, there’s a poorly scribbled note in bed next to you.

“(Y/N), had to do a job… but it’s top secret! Don’t move! I’ll be home soon.

Love,

Wade.

P.S. You can move a little bit.

P.P.S. Like, to the fridge.”

On the bottom, he’s drawn a little caricature of his mask, smiling and winking at you.

You stretch, sitting up in bed and taking a deep breath in. Wade’s window is open, and chilly air is blowing inside. You get up to close it and then carefully step out into the rest of the apartment. Al is snoozing in her armchair and a soap opera is quietly playing out on TV. You check your phone, which you have to explore under the couch cushions for, and it’s only about 8:30. You settle down on the couch, and soon, the soap opera has your eyes fluttering shut. As soon as they do, the brass doorknob of the front door bangs against the wall as Wade kicks it open.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… _fuck_.”

You turn around just in time to see him flop down on the floor. His spandex is cut up, and he’s bleeding everywhere.

“Oh my god!” You practically fly off the couch to help him up, but he doesn’t move.

“Wade,” you shake him, “Wade, are you okay?”

“Mrphmrrrrr,” he mutters into the carpet.

“He’s fine,” Al says from her armchair, “Never gotten hurt before, I don’t know why he would now.”

“What? What do you mea-”

“Just leave him, he has to let everything close up.” Al says.

“Close up?”

Al seems pretty confident, but Wade really doesn’t look good. His suit is torn, covered in dark blotches, and many of his fingers look close to severed. You’re taken aback as white bone peeks out through his wounds. However, as you move to look forward, you notice his skin is doing something strange. His thick, orangey flesh is moving, almost bubbling. It almost looks as if the skin is fastening itself back together. After 20 minutes of sitting on the floor next to Wade’s body, he wakes up. Aside from the blood coating his suit, he looks totally healthy.

“Are you alright?”

The fabric of his mask shifts as he smiles at you, “Great! Why?”

“How did you do that?” you ask as he gets up off the floor.

“What?” he holds out a hand, pulling you up onto your feet.

“It’s just, it looked like you were hurt really bad.”

“Remember that long story?” you nod, “Well, it’s got something to do with that. Hold on.”

A while later, you find yourself in an old, vinyl diner booth across from Wade, dressed in fresh red spandex. Besides the two of you, the restaurant is empty, and Wade is fiddling nervously with a fork on the table.

“So,” you speak up, stirring a mug of coffee.

“So,” he clears his throat, “Right. The story. Well, I was born a poor black child. I remember the days, sittin' on the porch with my family, singin' and dancin' down in Mississippi…”

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Just kidding.” he emits a nervous little chuckle and clears his throat again.

You think he’s going to joke with you more, but Wade’s story turns dark. He says he was a test subject in some sort of fucked-up government medical experiment. He was sick, and he had no other options. After months and months of torture, a mutation process turned him into a monster. That’s how Wade describes it anyway. A monster.

“And I don’t think I can put you through…” he gestures towards his face, “...this.”

Wade sighs heavily.

A part of you is relieved. The “big story” ended up being a lot worse than you’d expected. However, Wade looks like a thousand pounds have been lifted off his shoulders. You smile gently and look up.

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“It’s not. It’s fucked up. Like, my face is fucked up. It’s tore-up. From the floor up.”

You laugh, and Wade visibly perks up a little.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad. If you ever feel like you wanna show me, I’m not gonna, like, scream in horror and grab a torch and incite an angry mob.”

“That means the world to me,” Wade says sincerely.

“Besides,” you smile, “You just ordered food. And it’s not dark in here like it was at your house last night. You’re gonna have to show me a little bit of your face.”

Wade’s mask crinkles as he frowns, “Fuck!”

“Remember what I said? No torches, no angry mob?”

“How can you be sure?” he stutters, “You won’t think I’m, like gross?”

The waitress shuffles to your table, putting your plates down and you thank her.

“No tore-up-from-the-floor-up face is gonna make me forget the person you are inside, Wade.”

He lifts up his mask carefully and incredibly slow, and he stops at his nose. He looks down in shame. His skin is bubbled and orange, like his hands. Simply put, his whole face looks like scar tissue. And truthfully, it's not that bad.

"Are you kidding me?" you ask.

"What?"

"That's it? That's nothing! You made it sound like you were some kind of Creature of the Black Lagoon meets Frankenstein disaster. You look fine, Wade."

"Are you sure?"

"Surest I've ever been."

"No angry mob?"

"No angry mob."

Wade grins, flashing big teeth at you and comes to your side of the booth, hugging you tight. You think he might be crying.

"Thank you, (Y/N). Thank you."

The two of you eat breakfast on the same side of the booth, and Wade seems the happiest you've seen him since you met.

"Hey!" he perks up as you're leaving the diner.

"Yeah?"

"Remember when I said I wanted to take you to do something fun? That first night we met? Let's do that. I'm going to give you a classic, good, old-fashioned Deadpool day of fun!"

Well, you were going to get started on weekend homework, but how could you say no to that? Wade takes your hand.

"C'mon!"

He leads you to a little park, and as you’re crossing the street, a big truck narrowly avoids hitting you. Your heart beats out of your chest, but fear quickly turns to anger as they start whistling and catcalling.

“Fuck off!” you shout.

“Ooh, she’s feisty!” one of the guys in the truck snickers.

They continue to chuckle as their truck speeds away. Wade walks you the rest of the way across the street.

“Wait here.”

You watch as Wade runs after the truck, taking two knives out and hurling them. Each knife hits a back tire of the truck. It skids, goes off the road, and crashes right into a dumpster. The front end looks totally destroyed. Wade pulls his knives out of the back tires and walks around front to inspect the damage. The four guys inside are slowly coming to. You’re not sure, but it looks like Wade has a permanent marker. And he’s drawing dicks on all of their foreheads. He runs back to you, giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Very mature,” you grin.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here before the cops show up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your interest in this story and putting up with my bullshit. I love you all. <3


End file.
